gged some bread at a cottage door and crept into a lonely
barn to eat it. It was warm in there, and after his meal he fell
asleep among the hay. It was dark when he woke, and started trudging
once more through the slushy roads.

Two miles beyond Reigate a figure, a fragile figure, slipped out of
the darkness to meet him.

"On the road, guv'nor?" said a husky voice. "Then I'll come a bit of
the way with you if you don't walk too fast. It's a bit lonesome
walking this time of day."

"But the pneumonia!" cried the tramp, aghast.

"I died at Crawley this morning," said the boy.

A Tragedy In Little

I

Jack, the postmaster's little son, stood in the bow-window of the
parlour and watched his mother watering the nasturtiums in the front
garden. A certain intensity of purpose was expressed by the manner in
which she handled the water-pot. For though it was a fine afternoon
the carrier's man had called over the hedge to say that there would
be a thunderstorm during the night, and every one knew that he never
made a mistake about the weather. Nevertheless, Jack's mother watered
the plants as if he had not spoken, for it seemed to her that this
meteorological gift smacked a little of sorcery and black magic; but
in spite of herself she felt sure that there would be a thunderstorm
and that her labour was therefore vain, save perhaps as a protest
against idle superstition. It was in the same spirit that she carried
an umbrella on the brightest summer day.

Jack had been sent indoors because he would get his legs in the way
of the watering-pot in order to cool them, so now he had to be
content to look on, with his nose pressed so tightly against the
pane that from outside it looked like the base of a sea-anemone
growing in a glass tank. He could no longer hear the glad chuckle
of the watering-pot when the water ran out, but, on the other hand,
he could write his name on the window with his tongue, which he
could not have done if he had been in the garden. Also he had some
sweets in his pocket, bought with a halfpenny stolen from his own
money-box, and as the window did not taste very nice he slipped one
into his mouth and sucked it with enjoyment. He did not like being
in the parlour, because he had to sit there with his best clothes on
every Sunday afternoon and read the parish magazine to his sleepy
parents. But the front window was lovely, like a picture, and,
indeed, he thought